By Elise Hartman
April 23, 2025
I still go back.
Every week, like clockwork. Same day. Same time. Same little corner table by the window of that worn-down café on 3rd and Main. The one with the flickering neon sign that barely holds on anymore, like it’s tired of pretending it’s still relevant in this world. Just like me.
It’s been a year.
I know I should stop. People say healing means moving on, letting go, closing the door. But how do you close a door that never really shut? How do you stop waiting for someone who never said goodbye?
I order the same thing every time—your favorite. Two coffees. One black, one with a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar, the way you liked it. The barista doesn’t ask questions anymore. She just gives me that look. The one that says, “I don’t know your story, but I’ve seen enough sadness to recognize it when it walks in.”
Sometimes I pretend you’re late. That maybe you got stuck in traffic or you just had one of those mornings where nothing quite works right. I watch the door, every time it opens, hoping your face will be there. It never is. But my heart still skips for a split second—just in case.
I talk to you sometimes. In my head mostly. Occasionally out loud when the place is quiet enough. I imagine what you’d say about the new haircut I got, or the book I’m reading, or how dumb it was to cry during that ad with the golden retriever.
You used to laugh at me for crying at everything. I can still hear it—soft, warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so heavy after all.
It’s funny how grief works. It doesn’t come in waves like people say. It comes in stillness. In the silence between moments. In the empty chair across from me where you should be.
I know you’re not coming back. I’m not delusional. But a part of me… just hasn’t caught up with that reality yet. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s just what love looks like when there’s no one left to give it to.
Still, I go back.
Because maybe some part of you is still here. In the worn leather of the chair you used to sit in. In the ring of the café bell. In the warmth of the coffee I drink alone.
And maybe, just maybe, if love ever echoes, I hope mine still reaches you—wherever you are.
